


A Red Tide

by Johniarty



Category: Fargo - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Crossover, Daddy Kink, Emotional Abuse, Fargo AU, Gore, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Rimjobs, dark!john, johniarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johniarty/pseuds/Johniarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson lives a dull, boring life. His wife makes him feel like an inferior man, he's bullied, he's broke, and life seems to be dealing him a shit hand. One day, after a nasty dust-up with an old bully, John meets an intense man with a need for causing trouble. His name is Jim Moriarty, and he's about to open John's eyes in entirely new ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aw, Jeez.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. Okay. I've had this little ficbunny in my head for months, but after watching the premiere of Fargo five times, I was finally ready to start putting my pen to the paper, so to speak. This will be in three parts, following the events of Fargo's incredible first episode, so here there be spoilers.

            _Dear Jim, please fix it for me. It’s my wife, I couldn’t stop myself. She just kept nagging and nagging, I had to shut her up somehow--_

            Jim Moriarty flicked the radio off with a sigh. Without the inane babble filtering through his speakers, the thumps of protest from the boot were impossible to ignore. A low-level job, one his idiot employees should have been able to handle. They were to restrain an embezzler and bring him back into town for a little one-on-one interrogation time with Sebastian. Three men, three well-trained ex-military brutes, had somehow gotten their arses knocked out by a chubby businessman in a poorly-tailored suit. _Imbeciles,_ Jim thought to himself, already contemplating their slow punishments. The banging was getting louder, and his patience was wearing thin. He turned to head his shout--

            The car sailed through the fence and into a thick bank of snow. Jim slammed forward into the steering wheel, spitting curses as his nose bled over the leather. He had barely registered the deer before one collided with his grille, sending the sleek black car off the road. Jim yanked the door open and stomped into the snow. In the crash, the boot had popped open, and he glared at the retreating form of his pants-clad white-collar contract. With the windchill, he knew the man wouldn't make it back to town. The cold would do his job for him. Jim heaved a sigh and began his own trek into the city, leaving the car behind him.

**\------**

            John Watson sipped at his lukewarm tomato soup as the washer clanged and rocked in the basement. It was louder today; it’d been growing worse every week. Mary asked him again and again to call a repairman, but it simply wasn’t in the budget. They were barely making rent as it was.

            “Do you hear that?”

            “It’s just the towels, I’m washing towels, John. Don’t forget, we’re going to visit your sister tonight. Harriet said to bring roast beef. I tried to tell her it’d be faster-- and cheaper-- for us to bring some pudding, but she insisted! Apparently Clara’s going to be making some fancy teas…”

            He wasn’t listening.

            “It sounds… angry, today, don’t you think?” he asked, giving a slight nod toward the basement door.

            “Clara says Harry’s always fixing things around the house. She’s real handy, your sister. Never even seen you lift a spanner. Oh! She said Harry just bought one of those all-in-one units, washes _and_ dries. And last week? New surround sound system. I bet your Bond movies would sound incredible at her house.”

            “Yeah, well, I’m glad she can afford it,” John replied, looking down at his half-eaten sandwich with disdain. How was this his life? He was a soldier, he’d killed men, he’d saved _lives._ How could he have left the thrill of the battlefield behind for a wife who loathed him and an uncomfortable place in the lower-middle class?

“Guess I married the wrong Watson,” Mary teased.

John struggled to keep the fury off his face. Did she _really_ need to be so rude about it?

“It’s just been slow, at the shop…”

            “Oh, John. That’s what you always say,” Mary cooed, offering him a small smile.

            John stared at her a minute, spoon dangling from his fingers. It was ‘what he always said’ because it was _true_. He’d been unable to find work in the medical field upon his return. His hands shook too badly for surgery, and the clinics never called him back. Down on his luck and desperate for work, John accepted a job selling insurance. He wasn’t a particularly _good_ salesman, and he knew that, but he worked his arse off. Mary, for her part, wasn’t contributing at all. She’d been unemployed since they met.

            “Well… I’d better be off,” John said with a forced smile. “Don’t want to be late.” He pecked her cheek as he headed toward the door.

            “Salesmen make their own wins,” Mary chirped, turning to face him. “That’s what Harry says. You should smile, John, it won’t kill you. Maybe wear a nicer tie?”

            John scoffed and looked down at his worn navy suit. What was wrong with the tie?

            “ _You_ bought me this tie,” he answered, furrowing his brow.

            “Well, if you were a better salesman, I would have bought you a nicer tie.”

            He turned away with a glower as she prattled on, asking him to take a look at the washer when he got home. Blood roared in his ears as he faced the basement door. God, why didn’t she just shut up? Couldn’t he have one bloody day where she didn’t make him feel like a worthless piece of garbage? Without a word, he climbed down the stairs and took a tentative step toward the rattling washing machine. It rocked from side to side, almost as if it were trying to break free of its moorings. He cast a glance at the wall.

            _Maybe you’re right and they’re all wrong. No... I’m never right._ He grabbed his coat and climbed back up to the ground floor. He’d been late too many times that month; John hurried to his car with a final half-hearted wave at Mary. He shuffled through the ankle-deep snow and dusted off his windshield, preparing for the day ahead.

**\------**

            _They really are expensive,_ John thought, staring into the window of the appliance shop. The store carried the units Mary wanted, but they were a few hundred pounds out of his price range. Sleek and modern-looking, the dual units put his ancient washer to shame. He stood in a thick green parka, mittened hands stuffed into his pockets, completely oblivious to the world around. A new unit would make her happy, and get her off his back for a week or so. Was the purchase worth it?

            “Well… Will you look at that?”

            “What, dad?”

            “Yeah, what?”

            John looked up at the taller blond man who’d just approached. _David Hess._ He was immediately on guard, his soldierly instinct rising to the fore. David was a bully, real scum of the earth, but he had the whole town eating out of the palm of his hand. He ran a shipping business that brought in both business and money, and he had a lawyer to keep him out of trouble.

            But not today.

            “Oh, hello, David,” John said, squaring his shoulders.

            “That there, boys,” replied David to his two sons, “is a coward.”

            “... He doesn’t look like a coward,” the eldest answered.

            “Yeah, dad, he doesn’t,” the youngest parroted back. “More like a squash.”

            John gritted his teeth and forced himself to look up into the man who had made his life hell when he was a teenager. John was always smaller than the other boys, with his nose buried in a book, and David? David was captain of the rugby team, with a penchant for building himself up by tearing others apart. John was an easy target, until he got accepted into uni and moved away. Until then, he was David’s favourite punching bag. He hadn’t seen much of him since he moved back home, but the day was going badly enough that John wasn’t entirely surprised he’d popped up again.

            “John Watson.”

            “Yep.”

            “How’ve you been, then, John?”

            “Real good.”

            David scoffed. “Heard you were overseas, doing doctor shit. What happened?”

            John sniffed. “I was, yeah. Enlisted after I got my degree. Army doctor. Captain, actually.” He hoped David would pick up on the underlying threat-- _I’m not the pushover I used to be. Want to find out how good I’ve gotten?_ He wanted a reason, just a _single_ reason, to release the fury that was growing within him, and David was a good enough target for him. the bastard had it coming, after all.

            “Figured you would have been laughed right out of the Corps,” David replied with a predatory grin. He approached John and clapped an arm around his shoulders. “Hey,” he said, glancing to his sons. “Do you remember the story of the boy I stuffed in the oil drum and rolled out onto the freeway?”

            Of course. Of _course_ he’d tell his sons that story. It was one of the worst from John’s childhood. He could still recall the loud screech of tires and the screams of the furious drivers. John knocked his head during one of the rolls, and had been barely conscious when the police came to rescue him. No one else was hurt, thankfully, though a few cars had a few dents and scrapes afterwards.

            “Yeah! Is that him, dad?”

            “Yes, yes it is.”

            David laughed and stepped away, giving John the space he so desperately wanted. He was coiled tightly, just waiting for the right trigger to release the tension.

            “You know… I heard you were dating Mary Morstan. What happened?”

            “We got married,” John answered cautiously.

            “Wow, really? You know, we dated for a few years. Must have been while you were off getting shot at, before you knew her… She gives a _great_ tug, doesn’t she? Such soft hands… And nice tits, too. Loved the way my cock felt between them.”

            While the boys behind David cackled, John drew in a slow, steady breath. He was in control. Letting David get under his skin would be as good as admitting defeat, as admitting he hadn’t change at all from the quiet bookworm who wore second-hand jumpers two sizes too big. John couldn’t let that happen.

            “You know I used to beat him up every day in college? I’d make him write my name on my fist with a Sharpie, so that everyone knew who’d hit him. Remember that, John?”

            “Yeah,” John growled. “Yeah, I remember.”

            David’s fist was hovering inches away from his face. He drew back, and John let go-- he couldn’t choke back the rage threatening to drown him. He sprung, tackling David into the glass wall behind them and slamming his fist into the man’s face. David was just as fast, though, and brought his head up with a sharp jerk. He collided with John’s nose, send blood flowing down his face. John snarled through the pain and punched him again. His arm was wound for a third blow, but David’s sons grabbed his arms and hauled him back.

            “Nice to catch up,” John spat, his stormy eyes heavy with the promise of more violence.

**\------**

            The hospital was packed with people, mostly nursing frostbite injuries and the damage from slipping on ice. John leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.

            “Oh, what a day,” he breathed as he pressed an ice pack to his swollen nose. David had clearly broken the bloody thing. He was still wound tightly, with rage boiling in his gut, but that moment? That primal urge to fight he succumbed to? That helped. God, he felt better. Except for the broken nose, of course.

            “Excuse me?” he asked the nurse sitting at reception. “Miss? Just, um… Will it be much longer? This thing hurts like the Dickens.”

            “We’ll call your name.”

            “Yeah, but, I’ve been here for an hour already…”

            “We’ll call your _name,”_ she repeated sternly.

            John sat back with a sigh and cracked open the can of Coke he’d purchased from the machine. As he tipped it up to take a sip, the pain in his skull grew worse. The can pressed against his nose and he winced in pain. It was just a can, he could manage a few lousy drinks, couldn’t he? He tried again, and again, only making the pain worse. John cursed and lowered the can. _Could this bloody day get any worse?_

            “Can I have a sip?”

            The man sitting two chairs down was looking toward John. The first thing John noticed about him were his large russet eyes, dark enough to glint black under the fluorescent lights. His hair was neatly gelled, eyebrows delicately arched, and his was draped in a heavy black peacoat. He was pale, with a soft Irish lilt that was both pleasant and blood-chilling. He radiated _wrong._

            “Oh… Hell, take the whole can.” John passed it to him, giving the soda one last glare. “Can’t drink the bloody thing without a straw.”

The strange man lifted it to his lips and began to drink, taking slow swallows. He drained it in one sitting and discarded it on the table beside him. John couldn’t help but peek at him from the corner of his eyes. His nose was a little swollen too, and there was a gash over his temple.

“Obliged,” he said, inclining his head. John waved it away and rubbed his brow. There was a headache coming on, brewing behind his eyes. It was certainly the last thing he wanted to deal with right then.

“What happened to your nose?”

“Oh, this? It’s just a, ah, a misunderstanding.”

“... Now, was this you misunderstanding the other fellow, or him misunderstanding _you?”_ The stranger’s eyes glittered as he leaned closer to John.

“I… p-pardon?”

“Who misunderstood whom?”

“Oh… No, it’s… What I mean is, it’s no use dwelling on these things,” John answered.

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why is it not good to dwell on these things?” The brown-eyed man was smiling coyly, watching John with obvious interest. “Especially not things that put you in the emergency room at five in the evening?”

John considered him a moment. Venting to strangers was not something he was in the habit of. _Trust issues,_ Ella had written on a small yellow notepad three years prior. It still held true. But who else did he have? Mary loved to make him feel inadequate, Harry lorded her success over him, and he barely had friends.

            “I was, um… Settling an old score, if you must know. If I was any kind of man, I would have stayed and showed that bastard David just how much I’ve changed. But his kids… I didn’t want to emasculate him entirely. Or get arrested.”

            As he spoke, the man stood up and moved to the empty chair that had been between them. He was close enough that John could see the mole just beneath his right eye, hidden beneath black lashes.

            “David?” he asked.

            John looked around a moment before leaning in to answer.

            “... Hess. He was a bully in college, he’s a bully now. But he’s… He’s untouchable. A ‘pillar of the community’,” John said with a sneer. “The city _needs_ him. I’m lucky he hasn’t sent that shark of a lawyer after me for hitting him. He could make my life hell-- Christ, what was I thinking?”

            “In my experience, if you let a man break your nose… Next, he tries to break your spine.”

            “David? … Well, I mean, he might. I sort of, um, embarrassed him. In front of his sons. I struck first, I thought he was drawing back to punch me. So I hit him.”

            “You _embarrassed_ him? Well, I’m sure he’ll let you live it down, then.”

            “It’s not like that. He was… He used to date my wife, before I got back.”

            “Back?”

            John nodded. “From Afghanistan. He was talking about her breasts, and her hands, saying that she…”

            “Wait, wait wait wait… This man slept with your wife, and you’re feeling guilty for embarrassing _him?_ ”

            It was feasible. They’d dated for a few years, and John knew that. Mary had told him as much on their first date. Of course they had sex. That wasn’t why it had infuriated him. That wasn’t why he saw red. It was the disrespect David showed her, it was the way he talked about her-- as if she didn’t matter, as if she was just a means for pleasure. Coupled with the intended hit, _that_ was why John had lunged at the giant prick.

            “He was talking about… My wife, she has soft hands, and--”

            “Mmn, mister, I’m not your friend, though maybe I will be someday. Even so, I’ve got to say. If it were me, in your position? I would have killed that man.”

            John blinked. The Irish stranger was leaning close, barely speaking above a whisper. Kill David? He was an arse, sure, but not… Not worth a murder charge. He turned back to the man, studying his expression.

            “What? No. You’re joking.”

            The look on his face clearly started the opposite. He fixed John with his heavy brown gaze, sitting as still as a statue. This man was clearly not joking, not about murder. There was a weight to the stare that sent chills down John’s spine.

            “You went to college together?”

            “Yeah, for, um… For a few years. Shoved me in an old oil drum and rolled me into traffic once. Got a concussion, almost got hit, caused a few minor wrecks…”

            “Seriously?”

            John nodded.

            “And now he tells you he had relations with your _wife?_ This isn’t a man who deserves to draw breath.”

            “I… well, yeah, but… What am I supposed to do? I can’t touch him. If you’re so sure about it, why don’t you just kill him for me?” John was only half-jesting. A dark part of him _wanted_ David dead, for all the years of abuse, for daring to talk about Mary’s breasts, for making him suffer in front of David’s family. For wearing him down. For being an all-around prick.

            “You’re asking me to kill this man,” the stranger cooed.

            “No! No, I was just… I was joking.” John flashed him a small smile to reassure him.

            “Mr. Watson?” The nurse approached with a chart in her arms.

            “Uh, yeah, just… Just a mo’.” He turned back to the other man, whose name he still hadn’t gotten. “We’re just two blokes talking, that’s it. Just blowing off steam?”

            “Sir, it’s really busy tonight, will you please--”

            “I said just one second, please!”

            “... David. Hess.”

            “Sir?”

            “Just one word, Mr. Watson. Yes. Or no.”

            “Sir, I’m going to give your spot--”

            “ALRIGHT! Jesus, I’m coming!” John grabbed his parka and followed the woman back. He cast a final glance over his shoulder, only to find those dark bourbon eyes tracking his every movement. The man stared after him with something akin to longing. He didn’t blink, he didn’t breathe. All he did was watch John until he rounded the corner and disappeared from his vision.

_I didn’t even get his name._

 


	2. Oh, Heck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John never said 'no'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! There's going to be one last part, to finish out A Crocodile's Dilemma, and I'll try to get it out soon!

“Come downstairs with me, I want to show you something.”

            John paused at the sink, his plate still clasped in his hand as water splashed against the porcelain. Dinner had been uneventful-- just bragging, as usual, with everyone descending on him as if he were the family fuckup. He hated it, but like every other family dinner he kept his mouth shut. To keep things peaceful he offered to handle cleanup while Clara and Mary sipped wine in the living room, and honestly he was grateful for the time alone. Until Harry appeared again, at least.

            “Now? I kind of promised Clara I’d help with the, um… The dishes.”

            Despite his protests, Harry led him into her garage. Clearly proud of whatever it was she wanted to show him, there was nothing John could do but follow after her. Once inside she flipped the switch and light flooded rack after rack of wine, bourbon, and other liquors. Harry had quite the collection. Given her history, though, John didn’t understand.

            “It’s… wow, it’s nice, yeah.”

            “Nice? Is that all you have to say about it? This is… This is important to me, John. And this is the best piece of all.”

            “Oh, god,” John breathed, watching her lift a box from a display stand. “That’s…”

            “Glenfiddich, fifty year old whiskey. One of the most expensive whiskeys in the world. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

            John looked from her to the decanter she was now holding up to the light. What he wouldn’t give to be able to spend that sort of money on something as useless as fancy liquor…

            “Do you want to hold it?”

            “Harry, that thing costs more than my house, I don’t know if I should--”

            “Come on, John,” she teased. “What, are you a pussy?”

            _Pussy._ Just one of the names David used to call him, back when they were kids. _Pussy. Bitch. Runt. Worthless. Faggot._ The list went on, and on, and on… And Harriet _knew_ that. She knew, and she chose that purposefully.

            “Sure. Sure, I’ll hold it.”

            Harriet handed him the bottle. Neither of them took into consideration the fact that John was pulled in from washing the plates after dinner. It slipped right out of his wet hands and crashed to the ground, shattering and spilling the whiskey all over the floor of the garage.

            “John!” Harry screamed, shoving him backward. “That was a twelve-thousand pound bottle of whiskey! Why-- what the _fuck,_ John?!”

            “I’m, I’m sorry! It was heavy, and my hands were still damp I guess, I--”

            “Shut up! Just, just shut up. God, why do you have to be such a fuckup? Ever since you were little… Hell, Clara said she talked to Mary last week. And John, she’s, she’s _had_ it. She said you’ve been acting weird, moping around… Caught you in the bathroom, staring into the mirror, with shaving cream all over your face and the razor just gripping in your hand…”

            “Okay, listen to me, whether that’s how I may or may not be feeling, it doesn’t _matter._ You know, _Mary_ knows-- hell, Clara knows-- that I’ve got… that the war…”

            “Come on, John. When are you going to stop claiming the PTSD bullshit? You’re _fine!_ ”

            _It’s all in your head. You’re fine, you’re fine…_ After everything he and Harriet had been through, she should know better. She should understand that some injuries can’t be seen, that some tear you apart from the inside. After the hell they’d been raised in, and the hell he’d seen overseas-- the loss, the suffering, the physical agony-- she should have _known._

            “The people I work with love talking about their brothers. How smart they are, how cute their children are… Sometimes, John, I tell them you’re dead. That you got shot in Afghanistan, and didn’t make it. It’s the only way I can feel even the slightest bit of pride in you.”

            John couldn’t hold himself back, not in the face of her admission, and not in the face of her accusations. _Mary wants to leave. She thinks you’re touched. Harry wishes you died. Loser. Weak. Worthless. Pussy. Freak. Faggot. Nothing, nothing, nothing!_

            Just like when they’d fight as kids. His hand drew back, and with one fluid motion John slapped her.

* * *

 

            “Realty.”

            “It’s me.”

            Jim’s voice was unmistakable, even on the tenuous mobile connection. Though the man on the other end of the line knew his life and his career were on the line, he cleared his throat and began to read from the schedule in front of him.

            “Oxford was expecting your call yesterday.”

            “I got delayed.”

            “Problem, boss?”

            “Car troubles,” Jim answered cheerfully. “But it’s fixed now.”

            “And did you clean up the job? They’re going to want to know.”

            “What? Of course!” The shift in Jim’s mood was almost instant. “Sebastian, have I _ever_ let a job slip past unresolved?”

            “I… No, sir.”

            “Never, ever suggest that I’ve failed, Sebastian. I know exactly what I’m doing. Cleaning up someone else’s mess isn’t exactly high on the difficulty scale, is it?”

            “No sir.”

            “Never insinuate failure on my behalf again.”

            “... When can Oxford expect you?” Sebastian asked, clearly eager to change the subject. “The new client is anxious to begin.”

            “Soon. I took a detour.”

            “And the nature of this detour?”

            “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, Sebastian, but it’s personal. I shouldn’t be gone more than a day or two.”

            “I’ll let them know.”

            “There’s a good boy. And Sebastian? If you ever question me again, I’ll bite out that wagging little tongue of yours and nail it to your skull.”

            Jim ended the call and stared at the Jaguar parked in front of him. David Hess had picked a strip club as the location for his final moments. While Jim couldn’t agree with his taste, it made a certain kind of sense to him. David would go out surrounded by the things he coveted most in the world. Despite his money, despite his success, he was still a worm. Lower than-- a maggot, disgusting and slimy, crawling through the carcass of London as if he owned the place.

            He was wrong.

            London belonged to Jim Moriarty. And soon, so would John Watson.

            Music pulsed from the speakers as Jim ordered his whiskey. The women who danced didn’t interested him in the slightest-- mostly bleached blonde, with lean bodies and plastic breasts. Even if he were interested in women, these wouldn’t be what he liked. Here, in the dim neon lights of the strip joint, these women were fantasies. Their jobs, their educations, nothing mattered. Despite their athletic skill and their acting abilities, which Jim both acknowledged and admired, the service they offered was absolutely wasted on him.

            Shrouded in shadow, he stared unblinking as David grinned and chatted with one of the dancers. Taking his hand in her own, she led him out of the club proper and through a door on the side. Jim honestly wasn’t surprised someone like Hess would pay for the ‘privilege’ on an anonymous fuck. Despite his children, despite his _wife,_ David was still greedy for more than what he already had. More women, more money, more hedonistic indulgence for the sake of his selfishness. Tossing back a second shot, Jim followed after them.

            The sick slob had the woman on all fours, murmuring half-arsed encouragements as he thrust into her. Jim’s lip curled in a sneer. _What a pig. What a worthless human being._ Darkness crept into his eyes and he stepped forward, grabbing a knife from his pocket. It took one well-placed thrust of the blade into his skull to end the nauseating sound of his moans and grunts. As David coughed up blood all over the woman’s hair, Jim stared, utterly passive. No expression, no emotion, just _waiting._ When he finally collapsed, Jim turned and walked out as calm as he’d entered. John would learn of David’s death soon, and he needed to be ready.

* * *

 

            Mary made him sleep on the couch. It wasn’t as if physical violence was _new_ for John and Harry-- in fact, John was usually on the receiving end. When Harry hit him, Mary and Clara laughed. When he snapped, when he fought back, they crucified him.

            He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have hit her, even as painless as he’d known it was, but it… Dammit, they always fought, and she just _pushed…_ Even so, he was ashamed of himself. John planned to find a way to fix the rift between them, even if it took him the rest of his life.

            As he drove to work, stiff and aching from his night on the sofa, he caught a glimpse of the man from the hospital calmly walking into Speedy’s Diner. He lifted his dark brown eyes and met John’s gaze, smirking slightly before disappearing inside.

            “What the hell?” John muttered to himself. Who was this man?

            Walking into the office, John found himself blindsided by his boss. Mike Stamford gave him a small smile, eyeing his black eyes and broken nose.

            “Hell, John, are you alright? What happened?”

            “Oh, this? I slipped on some ice. With my leg, you know… it can be dangerous out there.”

            “Ugh, sounds awful, I’m sorry. Listen, I hate to drop this one you, seeing as how you just arrived, but I need you to pull the policy on David Hess.”

            John’s stomach dropped. “I… Uh, who now?”

            “David Hess,” Mike repeated. “He owns the shipping company over on Epworth? I got the call this morning, he passed.”

            “O-oh?”

            “Yeah. He had a big policy-- the police say it was murder. When you’re finished, would you mind calling his wife? She needs to know we’re working on it.

            “Right, right,” John replied. “I’ll… I’ll do that.”

            Murdered. _Murdered._ Did the man from the hospital have something to do with it? Though he’d only just arrived, John took lunch early and headed for the last place he’d seen the stranger.

            Speedy’s Diner.

* * *

 

            Jim could smell him the moment he entered. Sweating slightly in his ridiculous parka, the faint hint of lilac and Claire De La Lune… _John Watson._ The ex-soldier with a temper barely held in check. Blond, blue-eyed, a little on the short side… Jim found him absolutely exquisite. Booted feet clunked against the tiled floor as John limped toward him. One deep breath and sip of coffee later, he was sinking down into the booth across from Jim.

            “Um… Did you…”

            Setting down his fork, Jim watched John struggle with asking the simple question. He already knew what it would be: _did you kill David Hess?_ The answer was just as easy, but John was so adorable when he was uncomfortable that Jim planned to drag this exchange out. Instead of interrupting, he waited.

            “Oh, Jesus… Did you really kill him? David?”

            “Oh my god!” Jim whispered, feigning surprise. “Is David _dead?_ ” He dropped his jaw and stared at John, open-mouthed and bug-eyed. After a few moments he relaxed and chuckled, dark brown eyes burning with mischief. “How do you feel about that, Johnny?”

            “Well, I mean.. of course it’s, it’s a tragedy…”

            “Then why’d you kill him, then?”

            “What? Hold on, I never--”

            “Mmn, actually, _you did._ Remember? Yes or no?”

            “I never said yes,” John gasped.

            “Never said nooooo…” Jim sang softly, still grinning up at him.

            “Come on, that’s… In a court of law, that wouldn’t--”

            “Who said anything about a court of law?” The soft coo halted John in his tracks. What exactly was this man playing at, holding John accountable for David’s death? He hadn’t done anything! A punch, yeah, but that wasn’t supposed to turn into _this._

            “But he had a wife… and his sons…”

            “John,” Jim scolded. “He put you in a barrel and rolled you in the road. Your problem is that you’ve spent your whole life thinking there are rules.” He paused, watching the way John’s brow furrowed in confusion. God, he had so much potential… “There aren’t. We used to be gorillas, John. All we had was what we could take, and defend. The truth is you’re more of a man today than you were yesterday. It’s beautiful…”

            “How do you figure?” John’s voice was low, a whisper barely heard above the buzz of the other patrons flocking to the diner for lunch.

            “It’s a red tide, Johnny, this life of ours. The shit they make us eat, day after day… The boss, the _wife,_ et cetera, wearing us down… If you don’t stand up to it, and let them know you’re still an ape? Deep down, where it counts? You’re just going to drown.”

            John stared at him, and Jim could see the gears whirring in his mind. The seed was planted, the seed of doubt, the seed of _fury._ John’s potential was almost limitless. Though meek, Jim could see right through him. It was an act. The soldier hadn’t died-- he’d just been hidden, buried within John where no one could call upon him.

            But Jim could. Jim could tap into the reservoir of strength, and see the monster within.

            “I don’t want to drown,” John said. Low, gruff, his voice sent fire coursing through Jim’s blood.

            “No?”

            “No.”

            “... I’ll tell you what, Johnny. Come back to my hotel with me, and I’ll teach you how to swim against the tide.”

            John blinked in surprise. Was this man… _hitting_ on him? He licked his lips and forced his eyes back up to the Irish stranger who’d killed a man for _him._ Just for John. A stranger, someone he’d never bet, because he’d broken John’s nose.

            “I… Oh, hell. Alright. I’ll come with you.”

            Jim tossed a fiver onto the table and stood.

            “Wait! I don’t, I don’t even know your name! I’ve only just met you!”

            While John stood staring, eyes pleading with Jim to give him _something_ to go off of, he leaned in and flashed him another coy smile.

            “Jim Moriarty. Hi!”

            And, as if they’d never paused, he turned and walked out into the drifting snow-- with John on his heels.

           

 


	3. Hell.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim will break him down piece by piece and reshape John into something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I know it's been a long time coming. I hope this chapter is worth it. I worked really hard on it. I had originally planned to go up until the end of The Crocodile's dilemma, including Mary's death, but I decided to end on their sex. I might turn this into a verse at a later time - like if I visit my darling ChloeWinchester and we rewatch Fargo Season 1 - but until then I'm just glad to have finally gotten to the juicy part :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Jim grabbed him the moment the door clicked shut, tangling his hands in John’s soft blond hair. Though John let out a surprised gasp, he couldn’t pull away - or, rather, he didn’t want to. Flashes of David’s abuse rose in his mind, though, and he began to struggle against Jim’s strong grip. He had to get out, to escape while he could, or else -

            “Swim, Johnny,” Jim commanded, jerking his head back. “Your wife, David Hess, your sister… swim against their expectations. Prove them _wrong._ They are wrong, aren’t they?” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned in close, lips barely a breath away from John’s.

            Of course they were wrong! John was stronger than they knew; holding back the anger inside himself was harder than they could imagine. He forced himself into the meek, quiet man they wanted him to be. No more, god, he didn’t want to live that life any longer.

            “They’re wrong.”

            “Prove it to me.”

            It took a second. One second of bated breath and a lifetime of repressed urges. John kissed Jim with a low growl, encouraging the hard grip he kept on his hair. Rough, messy, all teeth and lips as Jim guided him down to the mattress, John felt a hunger inside him he’d long since ignored. He needed this, he needed **Jim,** and nothing would pull him away from him.

            Jim didn’t expect it, but he’d hoped. John was handsome enough, with a sexy voice and a hint of darkness in his cobalt-coloured eyes… But to see him like this, desperate and eager to break free of the rigid mold he’d been forced into his whole life? Oh, Jim wouldn’t let him go. Not for anything.

            “Take your clothes off,” he snarled, giving his hair another tug.

            “My - my clothes?” John asked breathlessly. “W-why, why would - “

            “All your life you’ve been a good boy, Johnny. Tell me, when did you kiss your first man? I can tell I’m not your first - it didn’t take long for you to decide upon that course of action. How long have you wanted to be fucked, to give in to that desperation inside of you? You’re going to, here and now - so take your clothes off and lay on the bed. Be a _bad_ boy, Johnny. Prove them all wrong.”

            John stared up at Jim a moment. His father’s words, Mary’s words, Harry’s words echoed in his mind. _Worthless. Wish you were dead. Faggot. Freak. Useless. Wrong, wrong, wrong…_ Fuck them. They were **wrong**. This is what he wanted, what John dreamed of for so long. With his jaw tight, John ripped off his clothes and tossed them over the edge of the bed.

            Like with Mary, the fear of his scars took hold. John tried to hide the bullet wound, but Jim caught his arm and wrenched it away - he leaned in, dark eyes staring at the twisted scar as his free hand traced little circles around it.

            “Looks like you’re already fighting. Army veteran. From the state of your faded tan, I’d say Afghanistan or Iraq. Too much sun, too much sand, and not nearly enough action for your tastes. This wound wasn’t an accident, was it? Oh, John, did you rush into a fray to protect someone close to you?” Jim took a moment to glance over at discarded clothing. “From the way you acted in the hospital, I would say ex-doctor. Battlefield medic. You were saving someone’s life. You came out of there wounded, a hero, and yet you let these people push you around? Johnny… what - “

            “Shut up,” John growled, shoving him down against the mattress. He silenced Jim’s observations with a rough kiss, biting at his plush lips with a growl. That he could see through him, that Jim could dress him down with only a few quick glances, shook him to his core - but he didn’t dare complain. Not now, not when his heart was racing in his chest. Not when he was so close to someone who truly seemed to desire him.

            Beneath him, Jim let out a pleased little groan and let him lead for a moment. He could have his moment of dominance, if it meant he relaxed. John was so tightly wound he seemed ready to come apart at the seams - of course, that was the idea, but in a completely different way. He would rebuild John, he would wind him up and let him wander back to town to wreak havoc.

            And if he enjoyed himself in the process? Just more fun for Jim.

            His hands slid down John’s chest, shoving him back with a coy little grin.

            “Good, very good… But that’s not how this is going to go.”

            John scowled, his blue eyes dark as he sized Jim up. Still dressed, still in control, and grinning that dangerous little smile. In truth, he didn’t mind the way Jim asserted dominance, but Jim wanted him to ‘swim against the tide’. Shouldn’t he try?

            “Mmn, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

            Strong, tan hands tore the buttons from Jim’s jacket as John stripped him. He didn’t care about the cost; all that mattered was putting Jim on equal footing.

            “That’s Westwood!” Jim exclaimed. He wasn’t angry; suits could be replaced, but seeing John so primal was a one-time offer.

            Maybe.

            The trousers proved to be more difficult, and John grunted as he struggled with the sleek black belt holding them to his hips. It wasn’t fair; his own clothing came off so easily, but Jim seemed dressed to dissuade him.

            Jim grabbed him by the hair once more and jerked his head back.

            “If you want Daddy’s help, all you have to do is ask,” he cooed. “You’ll hurt yourself at this rate, Johnny, and then we won’t have any fun.” Clicking his tongue, Jim released his hold and undid the belt himself. Johnny seemed like a dog in heat, all riled up and desperate to rut…

            _Daddy._ John shivered, blinking when he was free of Jim’s grip. He liked that, likely far more than he should. It felt so dirty, such an innocent term being used when both of them were half hard and disheveled.

            Black trousers slid down pale, creamy thighs. Finally naked, as bare as John, Jim trailed his fingers along the line of his jaw. John was fragile, balancing on the edge of giving and fleeing, but Jim knew exactly what he needed. That was his specialty, after all.

            “What happens now?” John asked quietly.

            “Daddy’s going to fuck you, Johnny Boy,” Jim answered.

            He moved faster than John expected; one moment they knelt together on the bed, and the next Jim had him on his chest against the cheap sheets. Hips in the air, John tried to voice his protest, but the words stuck in his throat as Jim’s tongue slid between his cheeks.

            “Fuck,” he gasped, eyes snapping shut as Jim lapped at his muscle. His breath ghosted along John’s skin, hot and ragged. John pressed back into his mouth with a moan. Jim’s fingers squeezed his arse, dimpling the skin as he spread him wider. He relaxed more with each slow, teasing lick.

            Cock flushed, he buried his face in the sheets. It was wrong. If David could see him, if _Mary_ could see him, they’d only laugh. There he knelt, half out of his mind and eager to be fucked as Jim slid his tongue into his arse. It didn’t matter. Why should it? John hadn’t felt pleasure in years - not like this. He never got to let go. He never got to deny the expectations forced upon him.

            It wasn’t enough. Even as Jim ate him open, John needed more. He whispered Jim’s name, rolling his hips a little to get his attention.

            “Please…”

            Jim pretended not to hear him as he slapped John’s muscular cheek.

            “Jim!”

            He grinned. John was a puppet, dancing along on his strings. He’d learn how to ask if he truly felt desperate.

            John didn’t want to beg. He was so sick of begging, sick of asking for permission…

            But he could demand. He could take what he wanted.

            “Fuck me, Daddy,” he growled. “Fuck me!”

            There it was. Just what Jim needed to hear. He pulled back and yanked the drawer of the nightstand open, taking a moment to retrieve a bottle of lubricant. Stashing it turned out to be helpful, for the first time in a very long time. Better to be prepared, wasn’t it? Jim clicked it open and poured it over John’s hole, using his finger to help spread it into him. One finger, then two, listening to John’s eager sounds as he pressed back against his hand. Finding his nerves was easy; a few careful rubs and John was nearly sobbing onto the mattress.

            “More! More, Jim, I can take it!”

            Good. Jim added a third slick finger, carefully fucking him open. Soon, John would be able to take _him._ It thrilled him. John had been so easy to play, so easy to shape… all it took was a little affection and faith in his abilities to make him crumble in Jim’s palm.

            He was beautiful.

            Jim felt him stretch, listening for John’s verbal cues. He wouldn’t fuck him until John demanded it - John needed to feel like he was in control. If he suspected, at any point, that he wasn’t? Jim’s entire detour would be for naught.

            “Now! Daddy, fuck me!”

            There it was.

            Jim pulled his hand back and slicked his cock. John was so beautiful; arse open, sweat rolling down his skin, a healthy pink flush creeping over him… so receptive, so confident in what he wanted.

            Just as Jim predicted.

            “As you wish, Johnny,” he whispered, slowly sliding into him. Hot, tighter than he expected, Jim bit back a moan of his own as he let John adjusted to his prick. He wanted to move. He wanted to fuck John until he couldn’t walk, until his screams woke the neighbors, until his was limp and whimpering and -

            But that could come later, if Johnny was a good boy.

            “I would have liked you to suck my cock,” Jim whispered, running his hands down John’s back. “I would have liked to see you gag. Did you do that in the army, Johnny? Did you go down to earn your Colonel’s favor? Swim against the tide, buck expectations… _Live_ a little, Johnny boy.” Grinning a coy little grin, Jim rocked into him until he was buried to the hilt. John gasped, but didn’t protest.

            Good.

            He didn’t seem to mind Jim’s dirty talk either. In fact, from the way he rutted against the bed, Jim seemed to think he _enjoyed_ it.

            “M-move,” John breathed, turning his head a little. “God dammit, Jim, move!”

            The moment the words left his mouth Jim grabbed his hips, pulling back and slamming into him with enough force to rock the bed. Gasping in surprise, John tried to pull away. It hurt more than he expect - lances of white-hot pain jolted along his spine. But the burn faded quickly, leaving him with a pleasurable ache as Jim fucked him.

            He pinned John down by the wrists, biting and sucking at his skin as the bed creaked beneath them. Rough, fast, claiming John as own… Their flesh slapped together as John moaned his name, short nails clawing at the sheets.

            Oh, how John longed to be touched properly. Taken in Jim’s hands and stroked until he made the hotel sheets even filthier… he wanted to come.

            But not until Jim did.

            It felt like hours Jim kept him there, suspended on the brink of orgasm. From rough and primal, Jim varied his thrusts to languid and slow. Always changing, always feeling the flutter of John’s muscles and adjusting accordingly. Slick with sweat and unable to say more than Jim’s name, John met every snap of his hips. Even when he was boneless, his cock absolutely aching, he didn’t beg for it to end. It felt too _good._

            “Ah, Johnny - “

            Jim wasn’t sure how much longer _he_ could hold out. John was such a good fuck, ready to please and willing to cling to the edge of his climax until Jim came…

            “Daddy,” John whispered, and that was all it took.

            Gasping, Jim spilled inside of him, vision going white as he scratched at John’s hips. Before he’d even finished he reached down and gave John’s cock three swift strokes, rolling his thumb over John’s slick head.

            His cock pulsed in response, coaxing a sob from John as his body trembled and tightened. Coming hard, he could barely breathe.

            They collapsed in the mess together, kissing lazily as euphoria crept through their veins. John certainly felt better than he had since the war. There in Jim’s arms he felt like they were all wrong; he was strong, stronger than they knew, and he’d show them all.

            Just like he’d shown Jim.

            He was more than anyone gave him credit for.

            When he dozed, John didn’t know, but he woke to bright winter sunlight shining through the curtains. Jim sat against the headboard, smoking as he listened to something on a pair of cheap headphones. A smile crept across his lips as he looked up at John.

            “Good morning, Johnny Boy. Sleep well?”

            “Yeah, actually. I did.”

            “Better run home,” he said, turning back to the window. “The tide’s coming in. Don’t you want to show your strength? Don’t you want to be a man in their eyes? The missus, your sister… Rub their faces in it?”

            John pulled on his clothes and righted his hair as best he could. He did. He wanted to gloat in Mary’s disapproving face.

            “Yeah. Yeah, I… I think I have a washer to fix,” he said, smiling at Jim.

            He shrugged on his coat and headed out into the snow. Clara was handy - wasn’t that one of Mary’s asinine complaints? He’d show her just how wrong she was, starting with that damned washing machine in the basement.

            John Watson. New, remade, and unleashed upon the world. Jim couldn’t wait to see what hell he wrought.  _  
_

 


End file.
